


After Silence

by bunnyfication



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyfication/pseuds/bunnyfication
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one universe, Tony Stark loves music more than engineering and Steve Rogers was a child star. And love can be nice, even if it doesn’t heal all wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Silence

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Alcoholism of a minor character, child abuse (mainly verbal), drinking and implied drug use (of a minor character).  
>  **A/N:** So, this was supposed to be a fluffy band!AU, but then Tony’s daddy issues took over the show. Sorry? Also, recipient specifically asked for no heavy drug use, I really hope you don’t consider alcohol a drug…? :’3 As for that one minor character, he probably decided it was a bad idea after the events of the fic (because it made him do something _nice_ , blegh).  
> Betaread by [](http://windwrackedstar.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://windwrackedstar.livejournal.com/)**windwrackedstar** who was awesomecakes and did a thorough job on this on very short notice. All the remaining mistakes are all mine. ♥

_Now_

The sofa in the tv-studio was a bit too small for six people, but somehow the chairs around had been ignored in its favour anyway. Steve sat on one side, his back straight in a way that looked confident to someone who didn’t know him well. Carol, Wanda and T’Challa were to his left, Carol calm and Wanda with a small smile. Clint was sitting on the armrest, jiggling his leg and drumming on the guitar he was holding in his lap, never completely still. Thor was leaning onto the back of the sofa, arms crossed. 

”And now we’re only waiting for one final member…” the interviewer, back of his head and shoulders visible, was saying when Tony walked in to perch next to Steve on the arm of the sofa, the only seat left available on it. There were shadows under his eyes, pronounced in the studio lights. Steve turned to him, asked something too quietly for the microphone to catch, but Tony just shook his head, gave him a strained smile.

The interviewer turned towards the camera, smiling in a slightly nervous way. 

“I’m pretty sure these guys don’t need an introduction… but for those raised in a barn, we’re here today with The Avengers! You’ve been in the limelight for over five years now, over half a decade. Does it seem like a long time?” At the last, he turned back towards the band.

There were a few glances back and forth before Steve cleared his throat to reply.

“Well, said like that--” he began, only to be interrupted by Tony.

“What he’s trying to say is you’re making us all feel old, stop it.” He joked, and Steve glanced at him, smile hovering on his lips.

“Right. What I was going to say is that it hasn’t seemed like a long time at all. The band’s had its ups and downs, but that’s just… how it goes. I’ve shared some of the best times of my life with these people and with others who are not members at the moment… and I’m glad to be where we are now. We’ve all worked hard for it.”

“Save the speeches, Steve,” Clint snorted. 

Carol smirked.  
“What he’s saying is that it’s like marriage,” she said. “In sickness and in health, and so on.”

In the bright, unforgiving studio lights, the light flush on Steve’s face was obvious. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead turned towards Tony. Their eyes met and some wordless message was exchanged there. Less than half an hour after the broadcast, that video clip would be all over the internet, but in that moment it was just the two of them.

“Talking about people who are and aren’t here today… you have quite many original members still, right?” the interviewer interrupted cheerily. 

This time it was Thor who answered.  
“Depends how you count,” he pointed out.

“Yes, for instance I joined relatively late,” Steve hastened to say, and then added a bit sheepishly. “Though we’ve never… that is, the band line-up has always been pretty fluid, so there wasn’t ever much sense to count the years.”

“Ah, yes, Tony and Thor, you were there in the very beginning, right?” the interviewer asked.

“Yeah,” Tony answered. “It was mostly Janet’s idea. I, Janet and Hank were at the same university, and Don…”

“Worked at the cafeteria there,” Thor said easily. “Was studying medicine back then.”

“Yes, we all kind of ended up not using our respective educations,” Tony said, smiling at Thor, before turning to Steve to lay a hand on his shoulder. “It’s only Steve here who grew up in the business,” he jibed good naturedly, causing Steve to shake his head, though he didn’t dislodge the hand.

“After your first album, you lost your bassist, so you were looking for new members, right?”

“Yeah, we were…”

*

_Four years ago_

In the evening, Kirby's Diner & Club had a certain old world charm. The lowered lights gleamed off of the worn vinyl seats and the wooden panelling on the walls. Granted, it was a mish-mash of styles; for instance, no lamp in the place was like another. All together, however, the impression was rather homey. One side of the room held a small stage and a dance floor facing it, though when less space was needed, removable tables and chairs encroached on it. That evening, only half of them were in use.

The foursome ensconced in one of the aforementioned booths at the moment seemed unaware of their surroundings. Their table was covered in the remains of a recent meal, mostly empty plates and glasses pushed towards the center of the table or stacked together. 

“Guys, you need to take this more seriously,” Jan said, leaning her elbows on the table with the air of mild frustration. “The record’s doing well, but that just means we really should be on tour, which we can’t do without a bassist!”

"I could do bass, if we had someone else playing the guitar," the blond man at her side added. 

"Hank, I've told you, there's _nothing_ wrong with--" She began, only to be interrupted by a defensive shake of his head.

"It's not that Janet! I just like playing bass, it's not like it's that much easier," Hank began irately.

The looming argument was stalled as the other blond at the table raised a hand brandishing a french fry stolen from Tony’s plate, and proclaimed with solemn intonation.

“Janet, Hank, surely we can agree that all instruments are equally worthy, and, indeed, capable of creating beautiful sounds!” 

At his side, Tony was sitting curled up, handheld against his knees as usual. He didn’t even glance away from its blue glow during the conversation. 

“Don’s drunk,” he said easily. “Your turn to deal with him.”

Janet sighed, but didn’t really seem terribly put out. 

“Sure,” she replied. “But seriously, if we ever want to make a second album, we need some more members. Personally, I think we should talk to Bruce one more time…”

“Didn’t go that well the first time, did it? Not to mention we’d have to _find_ him first…” Hank muttered, and Janet sighed. 

“I guess so. Anything new on the ever powerful internets, Tony?” she asked with a wry smile.

“Hm? Oh, yes… well, Namor McKenzie has heard about Destruction of Atlantis, if not the actual songs. He’s convinced it’s about his ex-band and got pissed off,” Tony explained gleefully.

Hank snorted.

“Yeah, right, because the word ‘Atlantis’ obviously can’t be about anything else. Conceited ass.”

“Uhuh,” Tony replied distractedly, fingers flying over the keyboard a bit faster. “Possessive too. I think he’s still angry about the time I remixed his songs, and that was years ago. Not that he can prove DJ Iron Man was me, and besides, it’s not like I got any money out of it. I mean, it was essentially free advertisement.”

Janet’s smile gained a slightly devious edge, right before she affected an entirely innocent expression.

“Possessive? Well, you’d know, Mr. It’s _My_ Toy No One Touch It,” she said, earning a wounded glare from him.

“Janet! You can’t use things I did in kindergarten against me… Miss Bee.”

Janet sniffed. When she’d been six years old, she’d had an unfortunate infatuation with a certain sweater with vivid black and yellow stripes. Personally, she still though the colour combination suited her quite nicely.

“I’ve seen the pictures, you were adorable,” Hank offered, and Janet beamed at him.

“Shut up, you,” she said affectionately. 

Don, meanwhile, was giving the world in general a sunny smile that usually signalled he was drunk enough either to do something destructive and/or embarrassing to everyone involved or to fall asleep where he stood. 

“Ok, I think we’d better get our thunder god home,” Janet said, giving him an apprehensive look. “Hank, you make sure he stays on his feet and I’ll… uh, I’ll make the way. Too bad we’ll be missing the music… Tony, remember to go home before you’re kicked out.”

“Yes, mom,” Tony quipped, this time glancing up at her with a smile. “Good luck with Thor.”

Janet shook her head, and then started to navigate a safe route out as Hank supported Don behind her. Tony looked after them just long enough to see if they had any amusing mishaps and then returned to his handheld as none happened. 

He poked at one of the songs they’d been working on before Bruce’s dramatic break from the band and then gave up on it and switched to another. Of course, there wasn’t much of worth he could do on just the small computer he carried with him, but going back to the empty apartment didn’t seem all that appealing either. 

He yawned, wondering if he should finally sleep when he did. It had been a while now, a couple of nights or so. At some point, they just seemed to melt together. Somehow, it seemed like it might actually be easier to just fall asleep here, with the low chatter all around him.

A waiter pointedly clattering the dishes he was picking up woke him from the light doze he’d fallen into. In rather weak retaliation, Tony asked for a glass of water. Then, he went to check twitter and tumblr quickly, before starting a remix of one of their songs and Namor’s. Just for his own amusement, obviously. He wouldn’t even put it up on youtube when he was done. Probably.

However, after a moment, his fingers stilled, gaze wandering over the now empty table. The truth was, he knew Janet and Hank were planning to quit the band too. He wasn’t sure _they_ knew it, yet, but sooner or later they’d realize they had other, bigger interests in their lives. He’d seen the way Janet scribbled elaborate sketches of clothes onto the sides of her magazines, and how Hank looked up university home pages and then read them over with a thoughtful look. Tony was pretty sure if he asked he’d say he was just considering his options. 

Don might stay, he was about as hooked on making music as Tony was, but they wouldn’t make much of a band with just the two of them. And besides, Don’s old band would probably take him back in a flash, so it wasn’t like he’d have a reason to hang around. 

What would he do then? Well, he could always do dj gigs, but after working with the others, making their _own_ music, would it really be the same? 

What he needed was a back-up plan…

*

The next morning, Tony woke up and for a moment wondered where he was, because his roof definitely didn’t have that many cracks in it, not even in the studio. Nor did he own a sofa as saggy as the one he was lying on. So, not at home, but at a rather--scratch that, _extremely_ shabby apartment. To be fair, he supposed it was clean and even kind of… homey. It looked like someone had extended an effort despite the odds, as far as Tony was any judge of housekeeping.

That he wasn’t _alone_ on the sofa wasn’t cause for much concern, especially as both himself and the man in question were both wearing most of their clothes. 

Start from the beginning, last night. There had been a guy playing at Kirby’s, nice voice and pretty damn inspired guitar player, and after his performance Tony had decided to go talk to him. Turned out he had a friend with him, a gorgeous woman in red with dark curls. And then there had been drinks, until they were all three somewhere between tipsy to falling down drunk. He had a faint recollection of stumbling up a dimly lit staircase, him and the woman practically carrying the other man. She’d helped them as far as the sofa and kissed both their cheeks, and then he had apparently fallen asleep. 

That explained why the guy was sleeping on him then, Tony concluded. Should probably push him off and go home. Though it was pretty comfortable here, despite the rather lumpy sofa and the fact his human blanket was a bit smelly. He’d get up in a moment…

Tony was woken from his doze by clattering. Dishes, probably.

“Nnmhwhat?” he mumbled. The clattering and splashing stopped and were replaced by a sound of approaching footsteps, which stopped right next to him.

Tony opened his eyes, and—

“Hello,” he said, blinking and suddenly very awake indeed, because the man currently glowering down at him was—well, Tony currently had a rather low perspective, which was unflattering on most people, but then this guy didn’t seem like he _had_ an unflattering side. He was towering over him, all smooth muscle and squared jaw and… damn, those eyes. L5, azure, Tony thought in a daze, just like the first car he’d painted working at the car shop.

Then he registered that the man also looked pretty displeased, and offered as charming a smile as he could dredge up while lying hung over on a ratty sofa under a stranger. Which was actually a pretty damn charming smile, if he said so himself.

“Uh, morning?” he offered, as the scowl didn’t disperse. He wriggled a hand free and held it out. “Tony Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

*

_Now_

“It was all a sort of happy accident,” Wanda said. “Clint managed to be in the right place at the right time for once in his life ( _”Oy!”_ Clint protested in the background) and somehow the rest of us got pulled along… I think Steve took the longest to convince, really.” 

“Ah, well, I hadn’t actually done that sort of music before…”

*

_Four years ago_

Tony wondered if this was how it felt like to sit in front of an angry parent, as the gorgeous blond man was giving him a weighing look from the other side of the table. He looked around in the kitchen to avoid it for a moment, and decided he was better off with the frosty blues after all. The kitchen looked about the same as the rest of the place he’d seen. Boring, old, scrubbed to within an inch of it’s life.

“So, um, that guy snoring on the sofa…”

“Clint,” the man, who’d introduced himself as Steve, said.

“Right. I wasn’t molesting him or anything. We were just drunk.”

Steve looked like he was about to say something, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the woman from yesterday. Her name had been something beginning with a W. Wendy? No, less common. Right, Wanda. 

Her hair was a frizzled cloud and there were shadows under her eyes, but otherwise she seemed enviably awake. Seeing Tony, she stopped in the doorway for a moment, and then wrapped the red robe she was wearing a bit more tightly around herself.

“Oh, you’re still here,” she remarked, before making a beeline for the coffee. Ahah, maybe not that awake after all, Tony thought as Wanda drained her first cup in a few gulps and blinked.

“Morning, hm, Tony? And Steve,” Wanda said, and then glanced between the two of them.

“Steve, are you... you are, aren’t you?” she said, going from disbelieving to teasing in the space of the sentence.

The man in question turned towards her defensively.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” he protested.

Wanda ignored him.

“There’s no need to give him the shotgun talk, Tony was a perfect gentleman. Even… hm, you did pay for the cab, right? It’s a bit hazy to me…”

At Tony’s nod, she continued.

“Speaking of last night, was there some talk about an open position for a guitarist at some point? Or was that just…” she made a vague gesture, “small talk?”

“Maybe,” Tony replied carefully. “I was thinking I might ask him to try it out with the others. Can’t promise anything though. Think he’d be interested?” 

He hadn’t been able to get a clear idea the previous evening. 

“What’s your band called?” a voice croaked from the doorway. That was Clint, leaning on the jamb and looking like something out for brains.

“The Avengers,” Tony replied nonchalantly, furtively looking at the others to see if there was any reaction. Wanda’s eyebrows rose a little, Steve looked blank, and so did Clint, though in his case it seemed to be more a case of his brain processing the information at a snail’s pace, because his actual words were, “I’m in.”

“If you can impress my band mates, maybe,” Tony replied amusedly.

“I will,” Clint said, with apparent arrogance Tony would later learn was typical of him, and then lurched away from the doorway again.

Wanda shook her head.

“I can probably settle a time for you, if he’s passed out again. The Avengers, huh? But I thought you were down a bassist?”

“Yeah, but Hank has been talking about switching to that. He’s been playing guitar so far.” Tony explained. 

Meanwhile, Steve was looking rather lost. 

“You’ve never heard of the The Avengers?” Tony asked him, pretending to be hurt. “And here I thought we were becoming famous.”

Wanda laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder, patting it.

“Well, that’s Steve, he doesn’t really keep up with the latest trends,” she teased cheerfully.

Steve hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms, practically pouting, and how adorable was that?

“To be honest, we’ve only made one record, with medium success. I’m frankly more surprised when people have heard about us than the other way around,” Tony amended. He’d started to feel a bit sorry for the guy, and besides, it wouldn’t do to make someone that hot dislike you. He’d already made a bad enough first impression on the man.

“Ah,” Steve replied noncommittally.

A silence followed, filled only by the sound of a clock ticking, and Wanda humming softly under her breath.

“So, you guys all live here?” Tony asked just to break it. He didn’t like silence very much, having grown up with an overabundance of it. It was one reason why he was so fond of music.

“Yeah. My brother Pietro as well.” Wanda replied. Then she glanced at her watch. “Damn, it’s… have to go get ready for work now. Have a good day, Tony, Steve,” she said hurriedly, disappearing in a swirl of red satin.

And then it was only Tony and Steve again. Steve, who apparently wasn’t very talkative.

“So, I, uh, should probably get going too?” Tony said eventually, deciding he wasn’t in the mood to draw anyone out of their shell so early in the morning. “I’ll just leave my number.” 

He tried his pockets, but he tended to do any notes he needed to on his handheld. Too bad it didn’t have a printer on it, someone should get on that. “If you have some paper?” 

Steve started and got up, his eyes scanning round the kitchen before he muttered something about getting some from his room. A moment later, he handed Tony a sheaf of thin lined paper and a ballpoint pen. 

Tony wrote his name and number on it, before glancing at Steve who’d moved to the sink, rinsing the cup Wanda had left on the table earlier. There was something oddly familiar about him.

“Have I met you somewhere before?” he thought aloud, and then tried to smooth it over with a smile when Steve turned towards him with a quizzical look.

“I mean, usually I’d remember but if it was at a party or something… was I rude? Because if I was it wasn’t me,” he joked.

Steve shook his head, his mouth bent into the barest of smiles.

“I’m not really one for parties, actually,” he said. “At least not these days, I’ve kind of overgrown them.” 

Tony raised an eyebrow. Did he realize he’d just basically called everyone who did like parties immature?

“Oh, so you _used_ to go to them then?” He said anyway, keeping his tone light. So much for giving up on it then.

Steve shrugged, still with that slightly embarrassed expression, though now there was something almost wary in it. 

“Sometimes. It was a while ago,” Steve said, before adding with a small self-deprecating smile, “I had a busy youth, before… well, settling down into a life of odd jobs and club performances.”

Tony looked him up and down, noting how Steve flushed and then turned towards the sink when he noticed him looking. 

“Youth?” he couldn’t help making it a little teasing. “You don’t seem that old to me.”

And then _something_ clicked in place, and he wondered how he hadn’t realized… sure, he’d filled out a lot from an adorably gangly teenager with freckles, but he even had that same hairstyle back then.

“Wait, you’re Steve Rogers!” Tony blurted out and could have bit his tongue when Steve turned to look at him, giving him a quite rightfully earned dubious look. 

“Yes?” he replied, this time turning fully away from the sink and giving Tony his full, and slightly defensive, attention. For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“You still do music?” Tony asked, the first thing he could think of that wasn’t something totally idiotic like ‘Funny thing, I was your fan back then.‘ Even at eleven, it had been a secret, because it wasn’t all that cool to be a fan of Steve Rogers, the latest child star. Not unless one was a girl, anyway. In fact, it was all Janet’s fault to begin with, really. 

She was the one who had played “Red, White, and Blue (Those Things You Do)” until Tony found himself humming along despite the utter vapidity of the song. And she had shown him all those pictures of Rogers in her magazines which wouldn’t have been a problem either because Tony didn’t really think much of him based on that. 

But _then_ she’d insisted he go with her to his concert, and somehow on that stage the scrawny boy with his silly garishly painted guitar was somehow a lot more charismatic. Something just seemed to _radiate_ from him, even singing songs with about as much depth as an average puddle. 

At the end of the concert after he’d already played one encore, he’d looked at them. There was a huge audience, but Tony could have sworn Rogers looked right at _him_ for a moment while his gaze swept over everyone. 

With a smile that was suddenly different somehow, less certain, Rogers said, “Well, there’s one more…this one’s just something I’ve been working on,” and started a song that wasn’t on any of his records. Tony only heard it that once, but even years later he remembered some of the lyrics. 

It was about a boy and his absent father, with the boy wondering if it was his fault he was gone, that maybe if he’d been a better son his father would have cared. ‘It’s so naïve, really,’ Tony had thought, sitting next to Janet in the dark, except that somehow there had been a knot in his throat he could barely swallow around. 

Steve was looking at him now, serious and wary, and it occurred to Tony to wonder suddenly how he had ended up in this worn down and apparently overcrowded apartment. And how would people react to finding out that he’d once been rich and famous, even if only for a while. A name everyone knew could be baggage, though his own had far more blood on it. Not that he’d personally contributed to that, but sometimes it felt like he might have just as well.

“Yes, I still make music,” Steve replied, leaning onto the edge of the sink as Tony tried not to stare at the way his muscles shifted, or the cant of his hips. “With what time I can find from my day jobs, anyway,” he said, too obviously casual.

“Still keeping one, huh?” Tony said, and even he would admit that was pretty weak, as far as jibes went, except then Steve got a sort of wry look and said, 

“Well, we can’t all have rich parents.” 

It wasn’t much, really. It wasn’t like he’d said, _we can’t all have a death trader for a father_ which Tony had actually heard before, in those exact words. 

He hadn’t really spoken to his father in years, if ever, even with the tentative peace treaty mom had brokered between them. He might like to think he had nothing to do with what he did, but he couldn’t really kid himself as to where the financial help mom kept pushing on him came from. 

“I should go,” he said, too abrupt probably, but suddenly he just wanted out of there. 

“Uh, sure,” Steve said, and he looked slightly startled but probably couldn’t care less, so Tony just made up some hasty excuse before leaving. He was already standing on the street, shivering in the cold morning air, before it occurred to him he should have called a cab first ‘If one would even come to a neighborhood this bad,’ he thought as he pulled out his phone to check the GPS and figure out where the hell he actually was. 

In the end, he decided he might as well just walk to somewhere more civilized first and try not to get mugged on the way. At least the rumpled and day old clothes might be good for _something_ by making him look less like prospective prey, Tony thought flippantly. And it wasn’t like he was in a hurry to get back to his empty--even in the privacy of his mind he wouldn’t succumb to thinking the word _lonely_ \-- apartment.

*

_Now_

Wanda smiled at Steve, tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear, and continued.

“Tony liked to arrange all these parties at his place and basically invite everyone he knew, and what with so many of us liking music there ended up being a lot of jamming sessions. A lot of us hadn’t even worked in the same genre before that. I and Pietro had done mostly classic, for example… but then again I guess Avengers was like that to start.”

*

_Three and a half years ago_

The party was in full swing, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves… and Tony was sitting slumped on the sofa, looking down at his bottle as if hoping it to get a miraculous refill. No such luck, of course, and he couldn’t quite dredge up the energy to get another. Then he saw Steve, who for some strange reason appeared to be all alone and feeling awkward, if Tony was reading him right. He waved, catching the man’s attention and pat the sofa next to him when Steve came closer.

He had that cautious expression again. Tony might have been insulted if he hadn’t already seen enough of the man to know wasn’t personal. At least, he assumed it wasn’t him in particular Steve was wary about, but his sort of people in general. So if they really got to know each other, maybe Steve would decide he was all right. Or all right for a selfish rich kid, maybe. It wasn’t like Tony was really invested anyway, he told himself.

“Hey Steve,” he said. “Thought you said you didn’t do parties?” 

Steve blinked.

“Um, my roommates were coming so…” he began, so clearly doubting his welcome that Tony decided to take mercy on him. 

“Had to look after the kids?” he interrupted at the same time Steve finished, “--and they insisted.”

Then he frowned, though Tony was pretty sure he was trying not to smile.

“I think Wanda and Pietro might actually be a few years older than me, actually,” Steve said, and ha! That was definitely a smile, even if it was sort of lopsided.

“You just give off this feel like you’re someone’s dad or grandfather,” Tony said, then inwardly cursed his big mouth. Usually he was smoother than this, even when drunk. Clearly, whatever Wanda had put in that punch of hers, it was no good for him. 

“I mean, in a good way. Like a hot grandfather. Not that I like older guys or anything. Or women. Though all of those can be nice, it’s not like I--,” he rambled, and then closed his mouth tightly, before any more inane things came out, slapping a hand over his face to make sure. “Damn. Tell Wanda I hate her mystery punch, will you?” 

There was a soft, low rumble, and Tony had to peek through his fingers to see that, indeed, Steve was laughing. He hadn’t thought he could look better, but with that serious frown he seemed to wear most of the time all wiped away… 

Except now he was looking sort of puzzled, Tony realized, probably because he was staring at him with god-knows-what sort of expression. 

“Okay, I will,” Steve said, smiling a little again. “I think it was more the amount you drank, though,” he added. Okay, the frown was actually kind of cute too, Tony decided with an internal sigh of resignation.

He considered asking how Steve knew how much he’d been drinking, as he hadn’t seen him there before then, but at the last moment decided that might be construed as too defensive and instead chose another tack to try.

“Now that I’ve inadvertently shared my preferences… or lack of them, if you will, I think it’s only fair I get one embarrassing fact in return.”

That seemed to be a mistake, as some of the wariness had returned to the sidelong glance Steve shot him.

“Well, if you were following the tabloids back in the day…” he began, and Tony remembered suddenly that Steve Rogers’ child star career hadn’t been solely ended by just puberty. Or rather, it had already been on the wane when he’d allegedly been spotted in a gay bar. Or was it a parade? Tony hadn’t really been following the story that closely, having had other concerns at the tender age of sixteen. But still, what did Steve think of him?

“You really think I’d actually believe them?” Tony asked, his tone casually pointed. Apparently a bit too pointed, as it earned a raised eyebrow from Steve, before his face smoothed out with comprehension.

“Ah. I imagine your family has had their share of… that.”

“Bad publicity?” Tony suggested. “And in my dad’s case, some of it was earned,” he added darkly, somewhat aware this was probably worse than rambling about hot grandfathers earlier, but unable to stop. “But the time they decided my mum’s life was the latest scoop just because she left that bastard…” He trailed off and glanced at Steve, who was looking understandably confused, maybe even a bit uncomfortable. No wonder; the poor guy couldn’t have expected him to start ranting about his family. 

“Uh, sorry, I really am talking too much tonight,” Tony offered, pulling up a smile that hopefully didn’t look as fake as it felt.

“It’s okay,” Steve said quietly, and Tony could almost believe he was sincere, despite the uncomfortable expression. “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.” 

“Not your fault,” Tony said bluntly, hoping Steve would get the clue and change the subject he’d never intended to come up. “So, how did you meet your… what did Clint use, “kooky quartet”? And what’s up with that, anyway?” he asked instead.

Steve’s face wrinkled in something like embarrassment before he mumbled something about it having been a last minute name they’d come up with for a surprise gig. No matter how much Tony prodded at him, he couldn’t get a straight answer as to how Steve had first come to know his roommates, which just made Tony more curious. 

“And you? How did The Avengers get together?” Steve asked eventually, probably mostly to derail him. Well, he’d probably find out from the other three eventually.

“Well, I’d known Janet literally since kindergarten. Her parents knew mine and so on. We kind of drifted apart for a while, before ending up in the same university along with Hank and Bruce. Don Blake happened to work at the university cafeteria. A student of medicine, our Don.”

“Oh, so that’s why…”

“We call him Dr. Blake sometimes? Yes. As well as Thor, if he’s on the stage or…“ as if on cue, there was a loud crash followed by a voice bellowing out something doubtlessly poetic and manly, “…drunk,” Tony finished, hoping it hadn’t been anything too expensive.

“I’d been wondering about that too,” Steve said diplomatically.

“He used to play in this weird Viking metal band,” Tony explained. “And if you think his stage persona is wild, believe me, it’s nothing on his old band mates.”

There was another crash, and Tony sighed. 

“Okay, I guess I better go check on the damage. Hold down the fort for me while I’m gone,” he said flippantly, getting up reluctantly. Maybe he could go get another bottle while he was at it.

The crash had come from somewhere downstairs, Tony decided, wandering in that direction and down the stairs from the upper level of the loft. The apartment had originally been a two floor industrial/office space. When he’d moved in, it had already been fully converted, with two bedrooms and a big living room upstairs and the kitchen and studio downstairs. 

Between the two rooms there was a narrow space, more of a hallway than anything else. It looked like someone had managed to tip a chair into the large mirror installed on the wall opposite the stairs, Tony noted offhandedly. He’d have to ask how or why, but at least there wasn’t any blood among the shards littering the floor. 

He wandered closer, prodding at one big shard with his shoe, and wondered idly if someone else breaking a mirror at his house was supposed to bring bad luck on him. Then he looked up, at the fractured image on himself reflected in the pieces of the mirror still hanging onto the wall. The hallway was shadowed, with the small point lights off, and with the deep shadows he looked older. Standing there gaping at his reflection with the bottle still hanging from his hand…

Tony looked away from the mirror, and then put the bottle down on the floor, but it didn’t make him feel much better. 

Let’s face it, he hadn’t just looked older. He’d looked like his _father_ , and not like he looked usually, with the sharp, conservative suits and studied cool expression and stylishly greyed hair he showed in public. Not even the man he’d seen the last few years when visiting him and mom, who didn’t look very different from his public image of years ago. 

No, the closest was those times when he was a child and Howard was really drunk, when his usual posture was slumped but not relaxed. Back then, he’d prowled around the mansion like an irate lion, just looking for a reason to lash out. As if underneath the iron hard control there was a seething mass of anger and destruction, and when he was drunk it started to show.

Tony had feared those times as a child, had tried to keep out of his way as much as he could. To this day he wasn’t sure which had been worse: the vicious, cruel words Howard had shouted at him when he was drunk or the cold dismissal when he was sober. 

There had been times when he’d tried to be a normal father, Tony supposed, if that meant showing your son around in a factory or an office, to be cooed over by employees and financers or whatever sort of people happened to be around. It had been fun sometimes, as long as Howard didn’t get distracted by something and leave him sitting in an office where he wasn’t allowed to touch anything for hours. In hindsight, Tony wondered if Howard had just used him to better his image. 

His favorite times had been the very few instances when Howard had let him look at some project he was working on. When they were both quiet and Tony could pretend that… well, he could pretend anything, couldn’t he? That maybe someday he’d be able to work _with_ his father, and he’d look it over and say “Good work Tony.” He wouldn’t smile, because Tony couldn’t even imagine that. His father only smiled in press photos, and even at four Tony could tell it wasn’t a real smile.

When he was five, he'd happened to hear his mother playing the grand piano in one of the large, airy downstairs rooms of the mansion. The strains of it were dampened by the walls and Tony opened the door to see who was playing. As he did so, the notes hit him like a bird flying into a windowpane. Or maybe he was the bird, because for a moment the music just stopped him, seemed to stop his very heart with its sadness.

“Mom?” he asked, feeling a creeping dread, because how could anyone play something so sad while being happy, and it was his _mother_ playing. But then she’d stopped and smiled at him, so he went closer, allowed her to pick him up, pull him into her lap.

“There,” she said, brushing a warm hand through his hair. “Did you want me to play for you? Or try it yourself, maybe?” 

He hadn’t thought of it, but he nodded, so she took his hands and placed them on the black and white keys.

“I’ll show you, okay?” 

She did. And that afternoon, Tony found the first love of his life, something even more intriguing that the machines and blueprints in his father’s lab, something created by the simple mechanism of the piano that had a living soul of its own. That first time he could only glimpse a small part of it, in the faltering notes he could manage to play by evening, when his mother said that her fingers were cramping. But Tony could already feel a desire to be _better_. To be able to make music that could stop someone’s heart, like his mother's could.

The fascination with technology and machines never completely left him either, but now he had a new purpose. As much respect as he had for traditional instruments, there was never quite enough variation or _control_ in them. As soon as he’d learned to play well enough, he'd started experimenting with a synthesizer, and building his own instruments to tamper with sounds after that. 

There were a few rows with his father, who didn’t appreciate Tony borrowing pieces for his projects from the lab or taking apart household items. Not that he always noticed the latter. Jarvis did, but while he might tell Maria, he never mentioned things like that to Howard. 

In hindsight, Tony supposed he knew why.

*

_Three years ago_

The first time he kissed Steve was before their first concert with the new group, and it had been largely to distract Steve from stage fright. That was Tony’s excuse at the time, anyway.

He’d gone to get Steve from the dressing room, and found him staring into the mirror with the expression of a man psyching himself for a battle. Then again, Tony was pretty sure that in an actual crisis Steve would be one of those people who’d direct everyone out of the building in a confident, calm manner, and would then run back to save the kid who’d gone back for their dog. 

So seeing him all shaky and a greenish was kind of funny. In theory. In practice, just the idea made him feel mean.

“Steve, Steve,” he said instead, softly. “It’s going to be fine. You’ve done this before plenty of times. And we’ve practiced, you know we work well together.”

“I know,” Steve replied gravely. 

Tony gave him a weighing look. Looked like the words weren’t having much of an effect.

So instead, in one of his notorious bouts of impulsive behaviour, he just took the few steps separating them and pushed Steve into the nearest wall. Which was luckily quite near indeed, so he was still too surprised to react when Tony leaned in closer and kissed him on the lips. 

He was prepared for anything, up to and including being punched--unlikely, considering the long glances Steve kept giving him when he thought Tony wasn’t looking, but still possible--and at first Steve did stiffen under his hands in a not-so-good way. But then he sort of melted and let out a surprised little moan. Heroically, Tony resisted the urge to take that as an invitation to deepen the kiss, but then Steve grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him _closer_.

Sadly, Tony did have to pull back eventually. As a silver lining, it did give him a lovely view of Steve all dark eyed and with his lips wet and bruised red from kissing.

“All better now?” Tony asked, which had Steve blinking rapidly a few times before he started to laugh helplessly. 

“What was that about, Tony?” he protested, trying to look stern and mostly just managing baffled and amused.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now, but in this case you looked like you might need some… bolstering,” he replied slyly, steadfastly ignoring the part of him that was panicking a little. Steve didn’t look upset, or mad, or anything. Maybe not overjoyed either, but Tony could work with that.

Steve took a deep breath and shook his head, before pushing Tony away so he could smooth his hair down and pull his shirt back in place. Not that it had been particularly out of place to begin with, unfortunately. Tony’s attention returned to Steve’s face quickly, though, as he sighed deeply.

“Well, I guess I know now why you wanted me in the band…” he said, with such a kicked puppy expression Tony felt like he’d just done the kicking.

“Oh, no, that’s not…!” he sputtered, the incipient panic ratcheting up higher, before Steve’s face melted into a smile as he started to snicker.

“Tony, you should have seen your face…!” he managed to say between bouts of laughter.

Tony glared at him, though the relief washing over him probably made it weak.

“You know what Steve? Under all that…” he made a gesture over the man and all his blue-eyed, all-American glory, with the damned man still grinning unabashedly, “You’re kind of a bastard.”

“You like it,” Steve said confidently, and then blushed right after, as if his mind had only caught up to what he’d said afterwards. Still, he had a point.

“Yeah, I do,” Tony replied with a sniff, and then they just looked at each other for a moment. Steve was still smiling a little and Tony hoped his face wasn’t showing anything too embarrassing, before Steve broke the silence with, “I think we should go, right?” and this time it was him with the gentle tone, as if Tony might be afraid of something.

“Ah, yes,” Tony replied, feeling strangely bashful himself, suddenly, as he hadn’t in a long time. 

They started walking towards the stage, with the sound of the warm up band echoing along the twisty hallways. 

“Is Jan… okay?” Steve asked tentatively, when they were almost there. 

There had been a fight earlier between Tony and her, mostly because she’d figured out he’d expected her to quit. Ironically, said fight had escalated until he’d thought she might, but in the end she’d just stormed off for a while, returning once she’d had a chance to make the decision. 

“In the future, I expect you to _talk to me_ before deciding on your own that you know what I want, okay?” Janet had told him, her anger cooled to frustration. Then she’d crossed her arms and shook her head. “Though with you… I should be used to this shit already, I guess,” she’d said with exasperated fondness that reminded Tony why he’d once wanted to date her.

“It’s fine,” he told Steve . As he glanced in his direction, Tony could see he was still worrying about it.

“It was mostly between me and Janet anyway,” he added to further reassure him, but Steve just shook his head.

“I can’t say I’m an expert of being in a band but… I’m pretty sure if two people have some trouble, it can… it reflects on everyone very easily, right?”

Tony hadn’t ever thought about it like that, but Steve did have a point. 

“I suppose so,” he agreed. “Speaking of, you don’t really mind the kiss? Because if you’d like… or rather, didn’t like it, I swear it won’t happen again,” he assured him, maybe a bit too eagerly.

Steve seemed to think about it a moment, giving Tony an entirely too perceptive look while he did. Then he gave a small smile that was, shockingly, almost sly.

“No, it was fine. I didn’t mind,” he said, casually. 

Tony raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” 

“No,” Steve repeated, and then, right before they got to where the others were, he put an arm lightly around Tony’s shoulders and pulled him closer for a kiss, one that was pretty chaste until he bit Tony’s lower lip, just hard enough to give him a deep, pleasurable jolt right down to his toes.

Then he pulled back and looked maddeningly, deceptively innocent.

“There, now we’re even,” he said cheerfully and marched ahead of Tony, who was left standing there sort of shell shocked.

“For now,” he muttered as he sped after him. He still needed to check his keyboard, which was actually more of a cross between a synthesizer and a mixing board with elements added according to what he wanted to achieve. For this gig he’d attached a theremin to it for the solo in “Secret Invasion”. 

The concert went excellently, except for the moment when the sound went out for a bit and that especially weird ex-band mate of Don’s jumped up on the stage to do some posturing because he’d apparently sabotaged the sound system. After which he challenged Don into a musical duel, which he, deep into his stage persona as he was, accepted. So duel they did.

Ironically, the whole thing gave The Avengers a reputation as “that band with the really awesome stage show that one time, when some guy calling himself Loki jumped on the stage.” 

*

_Two weeks ago_

Rhodey was Tony’s best friend, a title he had earned in part by getting to know Tony a few years before he had a bitter row with his father and temporarily quit his education to work at a garage and try to earn his own living. Those years had not been the best in Tony’s life, so being his friend hadn’t been easy either. 

Personally, he could never really figure out why Rhodey even bothered trying, but for some reason he had. Not just that, but stuck around since then. At least in a spiritual sense, since physically his job in the army had him travelling a lot. 

So, the expression on his face currently was giving Tony clear flashbacks to the morning after his 21st birthday, when Rhodey had had to bail him out of jail. In a dress. Which Tony had been wearing, not Rhodey, which was lucky since he probably wouldn’t have been forgiven if it had been the other way around. Tony rather wished he knew why he had that same expression at the moment though.

“Um, I don’t know what was up with that,” he offered, earning himself an exasperated glare, which was actually a step up from the ‘why am I still friends with you,’-expression from before it.

“I mean, Steve can be a bit stiff with strangers but not usually like that,” he added. It was actually rather worrying, because he’d had the feeling Steve had actually been more upset with _him_ for some reason. Maybe it had been something he couldn’t talk about in front of a stranger. Except Steve had been his usual self when Tony had first opened the door. Things had only become strange when he’d introduced Rhodey.

Rhodey was rubbing the bridge of his nose now.

“Tony,” he said.

“What?”

“You and Steve… there’s something between you, isn’t there,” Rhodey said with the bland tone he got whenever he was forced to talk, or worse, _ask_ about Tony’s relationships, which he claimed he always ended up knowing far too much about as it was. As far as Tony was concerned, _always_ was a gross exaggeration. 

Though he wondered how he’d been able to figure that about Steve, considering they weren’t really officially together. At least not publicly. Not that he would have minded, but he wasn’t sure if Steve shared that opinion, and there hadn’t really been a chance to discuss it yet. Tony was still waiting for the right moment on that.

“Well, sort of,” he conceded.

Rhodey sighed deeply. 

“That’s what I thought. And then _you_ went to open the door wearing a towel,” he explained patiently, before giving Tony a meaningful look.

“Oh,” was all he could think to reply.

“Yes, _oh_.”

They spent a moment pondering this in silence, before Rhodey broke it.

“Does this mean you will actually start wearing clothes while I’m here?” he asked, and then raised his hand before Tony could answer. “ _Even_ if you just took a shower?”

“Never.” 

*

_Day before_

If asked, both band members and fans would cite the concert at Madison Square Garden as a milestone in Avengers history. It was, after all, one of _the_ concert venues in the world, and it was in the city the band had started from. Kat Farrell, in an article published in Daily Bugle the following day, described it as “an effortless blend of traditional and organic with electronic and futuristic, topped off by the stage design by Vision.” 

By then, their line-up had changed several times. Hank and Jan had left, pursuing their careers elsewhere. At that point, they were also using traditional instruments a lot more than usual, with Carol on her saxophone, T’Challa on kora, as well as Wanda playing cello on more songs than she did bass, which might have accounted for the more organic sound. Tony even changed to a traditional piano for one particular song, something he’d never done on record before.

Avengers had by then required a reputation as a band that didn’t play many old hits in their concerts, or if they did they were always clearly transformed. It was less a choice and more a necessity. That was how music worked, in Tony’s opinion. No live performance could ever be the same as the versions on record, for good or bad, and never if the artists were different. 

He found it strange, in a way, listening to Avenger’s earlier records years later. “Destruction of Atlantis”, in hindsight, was unrefined and amateurish to his own ear, and yet there was a certain quirkiness and a sense of exuberance in the music, backed by the erratic growl of Bruce’s bass. 

True, they’d played those songs later, but they weren’t _really_ the same ones anymore. Personally, that sometimes irked Tony enormously, especially when he’d liked the original, which was one reason for their policy of not playing older songs. Besides, since Jan had left, they didn’t have anyone who played flute, and one couldn’t play “Sting” without the eerie, mournful sound of her flute floating over the melody. 

Not being able to rely on old hits made every line-up change and concert a gamble, but in Tony’s opinion a bit of risk just kept one on one's toes, and the music fresh.

Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. 

That night, it didn’t start perfectly. They were all jittery, knew too well how big this was, and the audience started out a bit cool. But then, sometimes those were the best times, when everyone in the band realized they had to fight for it, push to do their very best.

And then something clicked, and there was the lifting euphoria of knowing that hundreds of people were living and breathing with them, with their music. It was like Tony imagined flying would feel like. Like it felt in the dreams he had sometimes, high above the earth carried by some sparking, bone rattling force, always wondering if he could land, how much it would hurt to fall. But then, for that feeling, it would have been worth it.

He tried not to think who he knew was in the audience, besides all those hundreds of strangers. 

During Carol’s solo in their second to last song that night, Tony looked up from the keyboard, and Steve was right there like Tony had somehow known he would be. Their eyes met and Steve grinned at him, his hair wet and dark gold in the yellow beam of light hitting him. The music was all around Tony and he hadn’t hit the ground yet, and it made him reckless. Made him say, “I love you,” knowing no microphone would catch it. 

There was just time for Steve’s eyes to go wide and for a moment of panic as Tony realized anyone could read lips _that_ much, and then… then Steve smiled, bright and happy in a way that was an answer in itself… and then the solo was over and there was no time for anything but the music.

It said something about his ability to push things aside that Tony had almost forgotten it even happened by the time they finished, giddy and drunk of the stage euphoria, until they were backstage and Steve pulled him into a kiss, ignoring the fact they were still in front of everyone else. 

For a moment, the world disappeared around them, shut outside the circle of Steve’s arms around him and Tony’s gripping the back of his shirt, their bodies sealed together. Tony felt like he could still hear the echo of the music in his ears, music that was alive and reaching for the perfection he could glimpse sometimes, the _flying_ music.

It felt like it could have lasted forever, but it didn’t, because someone was clearing their throat pointedly, and they had to pull away from each other and return to the reality of a relatively utilitarian backstage space. The rest of the band seemed to have disappeared somewhere, but Pepper was standing at the door, hands holding both sides of it as if keeping something outside.

“Hey Pepper?” Tony said intelligently. 

“Hey Tony… and Steve,” Pepper replied, a fond smile hovering on her lips for a moment. “Didn’t want to interrupt you two, but Tony, your parents are looking for you,” she says, with just a shade of apology to her tone.

Steve pulled away then, like he hadn’t when they’d realized Pepper was there, and his shoulders squared. Tony almost wanted to pull him back and make him stop acting like this was something they needed to hide. Except they hadn’t had that discussion yet, had they? Steve already had bad experiences with the press. For all that he’d come out as bisexual as a teenager, this was a different thing.

“Oh, okay,” he said instead, taking a step back himself to resist the urge to touch Steve. Or hide behind him, maybe, not that he ever would. Then he realized he was still wearing sweat-soaked clothes.

“Pepper, stall them while I change, please?”

Pepper, lifesaver that she was, just nodded and turned away from the door. It wasn’t really a part of a manager’s job description, as far as Tony knew, but that just made him doubly grateful she was willing to do it.

He dashed into the shower, scrubbed himself clean, and then returned to the dressing room after a hasty towelling, hair still dripping water onto the shoulders of his shirt as Tony pulled it on. When he’d dressed, he found Steve sitting on a chair at the opposite side of the room, his hands curled together between his knees. His cheeks were slightly pinked, and combined with the earnest, serious expression…

“Were you watching me dress?” Tony drawled, raising an eyebrow as salaciously as he could, just to see the pink colour deepen. Steve was pale enough that any flush showed easily on his skin, which made him seem more affected than he really was a lot of the time. But even knowing that it was still adorable.

“Well, I think I’m allowed to, aren’t I?” he said now, with the sort of innocent expression that even on him was clearly intentional, and then smiled. Smirked, even, to which Tony was still not quite accustomed.

“Oh, I see how I’ve corrupted you,” Tony replied with equally fake dismay. 

“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you.” Steve remarked, his eyes gone soft and fond, so much so Tony couldn’t quite meet them suddenly.

“Lots,” he said airily, making himself busy with buttoning the last remaining buttons on his shirt. A few more than he would have if he weren’t about to meet his parents in a moment. Speaking of which.

“Steve, you should come with me, so I can… you know, introduce you.”

“Oh?” Steve got a slightly deer-in-the-headlights expression suddenly, so Tony clarified.

“As a friend. Band member. Or, if you’d like as a… boyfriend. Because I’m not, you know, ashamed about it,” he said, feeling his own face heat up a little at the word ‘boyfriend.’ 

This wasn’t at all how discussions like these were supposed to go. Although, if he was perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he was mentally prepared to introduce Steve to his father. 

Not because he was a guy or because he knew his father wouldn’t approve. Tony had had settled _that_ argument with Howard years ago. He didn’t like it, Tony didn’t give a damn about Howard’s opinion in the matter and Maria was on his side, so Howard would just have to live with it. It was just one more issue in their ongoing cold war. 

The thing about Steve was that he was _important_ , and Tony wasn’t ready to make him yet another offensive, another reason for pointed words and cold silences. He preferred to think it wasn’t because he still had the irrational desire to hide anything that actually mattered from his father, where it couldn’t be belittled or derided. Because it didn’t matter to him anymore what he thought.

There was a touch on his chin, and he looked up from where his gaze had fallen to ponder the floor.

“Tony, what do you want? Because I used to think I could never lie about something like that, and I don’t intend to, but what we have… I think we can decide _when_ to let people know, on our own time.” Steve explained, sounding sort of worried and very gentle, which was a bit infuriating. 

But, okay, clearly he had spaced out a little and Steve cared about people, even people he didn’t know. It was just how he was. And also stubborn and a bit judgmental, but if he hadn’t had _some_ faults Tony would have worried he wasn’t real, like a robot or something.

He tried to grin, though it probably came out more like a grimace.

“I’ll just say you’re a friend this time, if it’s okay. Not for… all time, and I’ll probably let mom know the next time I talk to her one-on-one but… dad is kind of complicated.”

Steve inclined his head in his ‘I don’t really understand, but I’ll trust you on this for now’ nod. He didn’t give that one out to just anyone, and Tony took a moment to feel warm and fuzzy over it. 

Then Steve’s eyes widened, in something not entirely unlike fear.

“Shower,” he said, and Tony nodded and gave him an amused pat on the shoulder.

“Yup, go have one. I’m expecting you to make a good first impression,” he joked, because he was pretty sure Steve could have made a good first impression even covered in blood. People would probably just assume it was because he’d just heroically saved someone from bleeding to death.

In ten minutes, Steve was looking like his usual highly presentable self, and Tony had to curb the impulse to make him unpresentable. What stopped him, though, was that he made the mistake of considering _why_ he was especially reluctant to leave the dressing room that night, and it was the mood killer of all mood killers.

Therefore, he settled for a short peck on the lips before bracing himself and opening the door to the rest of the world and its perils. In this case, his parents. 

Of course, they weren’t standing right outside the door, thank god, so it took a while of wandering around the relative chaos of a post-concert Madison Square Garden and a text message from Pepper before they found where she’d left the elder Starks, which was some corner of the building free of fans and media, at least. 

When they entered the room, Maria was sitting on a sofa while Howard was standing a bit further away at the back of the room, talking on his phone. Typical, Tony thought, right before his mother spotted them and stood up with a wide smile.

“Tony!” she exclaimed, crossing the short distance between them to give him a brief hug. As she drew back, Tony was surprised to see her eyes were gleaming wetly. His mother only gave hugs when it was a special occasion, but the times he’d seen her cry for any reason…

“Mother,” he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. 

Maria laughed and then wiped at her eyes daintily. 

“Oh, I’m getting maudlin in my old age,” she said, before turning towards Steve, again her usual collected and graceful self as she held out a hand. “You must be Steve Rogers? Maria Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Likewise, Ma’am.” 

Steve was practically standing at attention, like he did when he was nervous about something, and Tony had to hide a smile. He’d served in the army, briefly, after his first music career crashed and burned, and possibly the habit was a leftover from then. Then again, it was also possible Steve had always been like that. 

Maria looked at him, a studying sort of look that sent alarm bells clanging in Tony’s mind, and then she smiled again, a studied, charming expression that would have usually been on her face from the start, except that this one actually had genuine warmth to it. ’Oh shit, she _knows_ ,’ Tony thought, not sure himself if he was feeling relief or something else.

His mother glanced at him, the quirk of her mouth gaining a slightly impish edge for a second. 

“I’ve heard so much about you from Tony, it’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Maria said innocently, although there was a clear stress on ”finally.” Damn.

One of their few points of contention was his mother wishing Tony was more ready to introduce people he dated to her. Most of the time things either hadn’t been serious enough to warrant that or had ceased being a thing before he’d managed to do it, but he’d never had the heart to tell her that in so many words. 

This time, he decided, he really would tell her about it as soon as he could. 

“Yes, well, I’m glad I managed to convince him to join the band in the end,” Tony said, as Steve was still looking kind of poleaxed. 

“Of course, Tony, of course,” Maria agreed, with a resignedly indulgent smile Tony had seen her aim at his father far too often for it not to give him an uncomfortable jolt now. He just hoped it didn’t show on his face.

Speaking of the devil, Howard had apparently finished his phone conversation, as he joined them. He introduced himself to Steve with the slightly absentminded politeness he gave to people who weren’t useful to him. Howard could, when he wanted to be, be almost as charming as Maria, but that only seemed to be when it could gain him something. 

Besides, where Tony could usually tell what his mother was thinking underneath it, his father had always been opaque to him. Except when he was angry, or drunk, or both. Then he had at times been painfully easy to read.

Where Steve at least got the polite treatment, Tony received the usual cool-eyed look. In some ways, Tony almost preferred the anger; at least then he knew Howard wasn’t just dismissing him outright, as this one made him feel. 

“How did you like the concert?” he asked stiffly, just to break the silence.

“Oh, it was lovely--“ Maria began, at the same time as Howard said, dryly, “It’s not really our type of music, you know that.” 

He had, Tony thought dully. Howard had made it clear enough in the past what he thought about his career, in general and in particular. He hadn’t been expecting seeing The Avengers perform _here_ to change that. Music wasn’t magic, for all the media tried to paint it so, or how it felt sometimes.

So Tony hadn’t been expecting him to change his mind. He wasn’t that naïve.

Was he?

“You know what, I have to go,” someone said, and he was already walking out when he realized it had been _him_. 

“Howard!” Maria was hissing, angry like Tony hadn’t heard her in years, and then calling after him, but he wasn’t really listening. He just wanted away, where he wouldn’t have to explain himself to anyone.

*

Tony tried to shove the key into the door of his car for the fifth time, and then cursed as it skittered away, scraping over the gleaming red paint. 

“Fuck! Oh, poor baby, what’ve I done…” he muttered, brushing his hand over the scratch as if he could soothe it away like that. 

“I’d ask what the hell you think you’re _going_ to do,” a snotty voice said from behind him, and Tony spun around, brandishing the key as if he expected it to defend him. 

Luckily, the man leaning lazily against a nearby wall and smoking just snorted and gave a lazy wave of his cigarette. 

“I mean, I don’t know why you decided to get plastered, but driving might not be the best of ideas. Unless, you know, you _want_ to drive into a wall sometime in the near future.

Tony squinted at him, because he looked familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place. Dark hair, way too much leather… oh.

“You’re that guy, aren’t you.” he said with sudden realization, still pointing the key sort of in his general direction, though it was making a wavery sort of eight shape which was making Tony feel a bit irritated so he put it down. “The… obsessed guy. With Thor.” 

The guy whose name Tony still couldn’t recall… Lowkey? Or was he mixing him with someone else? Whatever his name was, the man looked only mildly irritated.

“I’m not obsessed with him. I just think he’s wasting his time with you clowns.”

“We’re not clowns,” Tony muttered sulkily, insulted by someone who wore a _cape_ on stage and sang about pagan gods calling _his_ band clowns. “You are.”

A “Ha,” combined with an arrogant head tilt was his only answer, and for a moment they just glared at each other like two cats on unfamiliar turf. Then Tony started listing to the side and had to grab onto his car to stay on his feet. Even as drunk as he was, that was kind of embarrassing.

“What’re you bothering m’ for anyway?” he slurred irritably, but Lowkey or whoever it was just shrugged. Was he usually this mellow? Tony’s memory was a bit fuzzy at the moment, but he seemed to recall the guy being a lot more… dramatic. 

“Chaos,” Lowkey said suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“I was thinking, here’s Tony Stark trying to get himself killed, which, you know, the death of a founding member is pretty bad for a band. So obviously I should let him get on with it. In fact,” and here he made a meaningful pause. “It was _so_ obvious I realized it’d be _way_ too predictable. So I’m stopping you,” Lowkey concluded, and then cackled a little.

Ah.

“You’re totally high, aren’t you?” Tony said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” the man said with a frankly terrifying grin. The sort one wouldn’t want to see in a dark alley, which was unfortunately where they were at the moment.

“Urgh,” he said, and Lowkey took an alarmed step back.

“The gutter is that way, if you’re going to throw up,” he pointed helpfully, which Tony did, a few seconds later.

Afterwards, feeling kind of like he’d just been turned inside out, but also slightly less drunk out of sheer discomfort, Tony was slightly surprised Lowkey was still there. Not a hallucination then. Too bad.

He was also giving Tony a sort of narrow eyed look. 

“Going to do that again? Because if you throw up in my car I’m throwing _you_ out. While it’s moving.”

“You’re going to drive?” Tony asked dubiously.

“You or me,” was the unconcerned reply. “I think I have better chances.”

And that was how he ended up driven home by a guy who kept remarking about things no one else could see, though luckily he was perfectly content to drive over them, with just a viciously gleeful mutter to mark the occasion. 

After a while, Tony got bored and opened the glove compartment, which in addition to various odds and ends contained a handful of cassette tapes. Wow, he hadn’t even seen one of those in years. Did this guy actually… yes, his car had a player for them too. 

He picked one of the cassettes and peered at it in the streetlights.

“Wow, is this a Brotherhood of Evil Mutants cassette _from the seventies_?” he asked. 

Lowkey just gave it an uninterested glance and shrugged. 

“Dunno. Could be? Someone probably left it here, I don’t really care for punk.” 

“Yeah, they’re a bunch of pretentious hipsters,” Tony agreed. “Or maybe that’s just the image they’re going for,” he added, to assuage the irrational guilt he’d felt at knocking a band whose lead was married to a guy who’d let him and his mother stay at his mansion once.

Just like that, he was nine, sitting in the passenger seat of his mother’s azure porche, stomach rolling with a heady mixture of terror and excitement, or maybe the liquor his dad had insisted he drink earlier, his eyes so full of shadows that Tony hadn’t dared disobey, even with mother’s silent dismay at his back.

She’d led him out, afterwards, hand too tight on his shoulder, and he’d felt sick, because now _she_ was angry with him too, and he couldn’t—

“I feel sick” he’d whispered, and she’d led him into the nearest restroom to throw up, and then hushed him when he cried. He apologised, once he could form words, and she’d made a terrible hurt little sound and clutched him tighter, so tight it almost hurt, but when he’d finally looked up her face had been just sort of blank.

”We have to go,” she’d said, and he hadn’t even asked where or why, just stood by numbly as she packed two travel packs, one for each of them, and then they _did_ , just climbed into her favourite car and sped away…

“Oy!” a sharp voice woke him up from his reminiscing. “You’re home, get out,” Lowkey told him irritably, as Tony just stared at him.

“Oh. Okay.” he said, fumbling the door open. He barely had time to close it after him before the car was speeding away, so he was left standing there on the lawn of the mansion. Because that’s where their current training locale was, due to his parents having supposedly needed someone to look after it while they lived elsewhere and Tony still not knowing how to say no to his mother.

Damn it. 

So here he was, at one of his least favorite places in the world, _drunk,_ and knowing people were probably worried for him. Steve. And mom, oh god…

And then the lawn lights came on, blinding him momentarily, so he only vaguely saw the figure running towards him from the front door, until he was right next to him.

Well, hell.

“Hey, _dad_ ,” Tony said, and then he began to laugh, a bitter, ugly sound that welled up his throat like bile. “I was just thinking about who I least wanted to see in the world, and there you are,” he spat out. 

He couldn’t make out Howard’s expression, not with the lights still glaring into his eyes, but he could imagine it, a supercilious frown, a ‘Tony why are you making such a scene’-look.

“Tony, are you drunk?” he asked, tone strained, but Tony wasn’t even listening to him, not really.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Bet you’re happy now, with proof I’m just as much of a fuck-up as you ever were,” he muttered, unable to stop the words once he’d began. “Only, you got better! So it’s _all_ all right now, isn’t it?” 

Howard stood still, like he’d been frozen into a statue. The Perfect Businessman, maybe, if anyone made statues for those. 

“I’ve never said that,” he said quietly, and just like that the fight went out of Tony. Because what was the use? He was never going to win against him.

“Forget it,” he said, hating how defeated he sounded. “I don’t know why I even bother…”

The lights finally went out, leaving deep darkness behind them, sparking with after images.

“Your mother was worried. I’m not sure seeing you will make her feel any better,” Howard said, and _now_ there was that reprimand that had been missing from it earlier. And how was it that he could be such a bastard and still know exactly where to hit to hurt most?

“Oh really,” Tony replied sarcastically, and could practically hear the way Howard bristled at that.

“I’m calling her now,” was all he said though, and Tony slumped down onto the damp grass, trying not to listen to the one sided phone conversation.

Once it was over, there was a long silence, before Howard spoke, in a strangely tentative tone.

“She was searching for you, with Mr. Rogers. I called people, but they still insisted on going themselves…” 

Tony couldn’t recall Howard ever sounding that hesitant about anything. Like he was trying to puzzle out something. But he was too tired to try to work it out, too tired to even feel anything.

“And you went back home, huh? Yeah, I would have too, if I wasn’t me,” he said flatly.

There was only silence to answer him for a moment, and then, quietly:

“They told me to. In case… in case you came here.” 

What was that supposed to mean?

“Are they really mad. Or, dunno, upset? I guess they are,” Tony found himself saying, hating how pathetic he sounded. But it was easier to talk to his father, with the darkness between them and the drink to dull his mind. Too easy, perhaps.

“Probably,” Howard replied. “But she’ll forgive you,” he added with absolute conviction.

“You’d know.” 

“I wonder, sometimes.” Howard’s voice barely got to him, it was so quiet. “When it’ll be the last straw…”

Tony shrugged. He didn’t want to hear this, to hear that his father… what, worried about it? Cared about his wife’s opinion of him. Of course he did, enough to have stopped drinking and spending time with some of the shadier characters in his circle of friends. Not enough to stop selling weapons though. 

Sometimes, in his darkest moments, Tony had to admit to himself he was jealous of that, just a little, but still. That _she_ mattered, when he never had. 

“You’ve done worse,” he said now, and Howard sighed.

“I know, actually. You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” 

Was there really, just barely, actual hurt in his tone? Tony couldn’t tell for sure, didn’t think he _wanted_ to hear it there.

“Why would I, when you never _asked_?” he said instead, emotion bleeding into his voice again.

“I did—“

“Yes, when mother _told_ you to! Hell, that was probably one of her conditions on taking you back, wasn't it?”

The uneasy silence that followed that was answer enough.

“Yeah. I thought so.” 

He actually felt like he was winning, Tony realized with sudden mean relish. For once it was his father who was left wordless.

“So, why would you expect me to give a damn, when you’ve never even tried!”

“Tony…”

“What? What could you possibly have to say?” Tony asked, as derisively as he could, and he’d learned from the master.

“I… I don’t know how. No one ever taught me.” 

His father’s voice was cracking, and when Tony looked up his shoulders were slouched. Huh.

“Too bad,” he replied distantly. “You might want to look that up sometime.”

The dullness was back again, falling over him like a heavy blanket until even his limbs felt numb. It was an oddly peaceful feeling. The darkness seemed to be crowding on him too, swallowing up all the remaining light and pushing him down and down…

*

_Now_

_“So, that was it for tonight, and tomorrow—“_

Steve turned off the television, and it went black with a classy sort of ping. The sort of sound one might expect to hear in a really good hotel elevator. He looked down at Tony, nestled against his shoulder. From this angle, Steve couldn’t tell if he was awake or not, but then Tony spoke, in a dry tone.

“I looked really hung-over, didn’t I? The make-up person was almost in tears when she finally sent me to the shoot,” he said, trying to make a joke of it, but Steve could hear the strain in his voice.

“You could have been just tired,” Steve tried, but Tony’s snort told him how believable it was. Then again, he was pretty sure Tony’s low mood all day wasn’t really about the hang-over. Not the physical effects, anyway.

Instead, he tried to change the subject.

“You and that reporter seemed to have a lot to talk about after the shoot. Should I worry?” he asked jokingly, which got a snicker out of Tony, before he managed to school his face into an appropriately reproachful look.

“Don’t be creepy Steve, he was way too young. Although, it _is_ nice to find someone who can appreciate my instrument designs properly. Might have to invite him over sometime, see what he can do… if I can remember what his name was.”

“Peter Parker,” Steve replied, because he tended to remember these things, and the boy had actually seemed quite nice. And for all he was clearly a fan of Tony, Steve was pretty sure it was platonic admiration. 

They lapsed into silence again, and then Tony said, “I really am sorry about last night. It won’t happen again, and I know that probably isn’t very believable but…”

“Tony!” Steve interrupted him, and Tony looked at him, clearly miserable. “It’s okay,” he said more calmly. “I forgive you, Maria has forgiven you, you don’t have to apologise anymore.”

Tony looked momentarily relieved, and then his shoulders slumped and his gaze fell down towards the carpet.

“I just… don’t want to turn into him. I mean, these things can… be inherited, you know?”

They’d had a talk earlier that day, about Tony’s childhood and his father and why they didn’t get along, and unconsciously Steve’s arm tightened around him now. After hearing that story, he wasn’t terribly fond of Howard Stark either, for all that he had seemed more worried than Tony seems to think he was last night. 

“You won’t,” he said now, with absolute conviction. “You’ll always be your own person, no matter what.”

Tony looked up at him, with such tentative hope that Steve’s heart ached for him.

“But if I ever…”

“I’ll be there for you,” Steve said, and then hesitated, because there are some things he didn’t talk to people about. “My dad was an alcoholic,” he said, quickly, before he could decide not to.

“Your… oh,” Tony said, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Yes. He kind of disappeared when I was a kid, left mom to handle everything. I tried to look for him, later, but by then… well, I found out he’d died, some years earlier. I know I shouldn’t feel bad about that but…”

“You shouldn’t. It was his own life, and you were just a kid, anyway,” Tony assured him, and Steve managed a grateful smile for him. 

“I know. But I’m not a kid anymore, and if anyone I care about ever went that way, I plan to be there for them. I hope I don’t have to, but I will. I'll be there for you.” he promised, and it was not easy because the prospect was frankly terrifying, but at least they’re together in that. 

“Ok, Steve,” Tony said, holding onto his hand a bit too tightly. He smiled, and it was strained but honest. “I hope you don’t have to either.”

There was a long silence, with just the two of them and the weight of the unknown future on them, and then Tony seemed to shake himself a little and jumped to his feet. 

“Come on, there’s something I want to show you,” he said, and then led him through the mansion to a large… hall, perhaps, Steve wasn’t entirely sure what all the different types of rooms ought to be called. It was dark at first, before Tony flicked the lights on, and then walked over to a grand piano. 

He brushed a hand over the lid with a tender expression, the same way he sometimes touched his own instruments, the ones he built himself. 

“Old friend?” Steve joked, and Tony laughed a little.

“You have _no_ room to say that,” Tony reminded him, which was quite correct. “But yes, it’s… the piano I learned to play on, you know. I wonder if it’s still in tune…”

He sat down and lifted up the lid, before trying out a simple tune.

“Sounds like it,” Tony said softly and Steve sat next to him on the bench, barely enough room for it but he didn’t care how awkward it was. It was good, just being with Tony.

He started to play for real, something slow and melancholy, but despite how sad it was, the melody was flying, soaring, and when Steve closed his eyes he could imagine it. Rising higher and higher, to a lonely cold freedom above the clouds. And then… there was a shift, something Steve could probably study and take apart if he wanted, but at that moment he just chose to experience it. The tune became more hopeful, almost joyful. Tony let it fade out there, looking down at the keys with a slight frown, before he cleared his throat.

“It gets… sad again, after that,” he said, and Steve just laid his chin on Tony’s shoulder and leaned on it.

“We could rewrite it, though,” he suggested lightly, and Tony’s frown cleared, even if he also turned to swat at Steve’s shoulder.

“Heathen,” he told him fondly, and, “that’s cheating.”

“You’re the one who built his own keyboard because you couldn’t find one that was good enough.” Steve reminded him, and Tony looked at him, like they both knew this was about more than just compositions and keyboards. “I’ll help,” he offered, and kissed Tony before he could come up with any protests. 

If one asked Steve, he thought it was a pretty good battle plan. And he didn’t plan to lose.


End file.
